


The Witching Hour

by SeverinadeStrango



Category: Sengoku Basara
Genre: Akechi Mitsuhide is His Own Warning, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Drabble, Hints of Espionage, Implied Gang Violence, Implied Organized Crime, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Surrealism, No Dialogue, Sex Work, Stripper Akechi Mitsuhide, Stripping, Yakuza Boss Oda Nobunaga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 04:42:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17400230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeverinadeStrango/pseuds/SeverinadeStrango
Summary: A time in which everything, for once, stands still.





	The Witching Hour

Mitsuhide enjoyed his work, he did – it wasn’t as raw and ultimately satisfying as the more specific clients he would see to during the weekdays, of course, but there was something equally thrilling about having an entire audience drawn to him like a moth to a flame, eyes glued to his every movement as he spun himself around the pole. Every delicate article of clothing that was unlaced, unhooked, dropped, drew more attention. Flies to honey – not that he’d ever call himself sweet, how dreadfully plain.

But that wasn’t the best part of it. The moment he truly anticipated was when the doors were shut, the bars wiped down, and he would saunter into the room furthest to the back and drop to his knees and tremble as he felt him gaze down upon him that that _that_ was what he lived for. None of it mattered otherwise. The only thing in this world that remained were his words of praise, that little nod of approval, far past midnight when not a soul remained in this building save for the two of them. 

The happiest hours were not when he was there on the stage or losing himself in mindless pleasure – a bonus of being so versatile – but it was this, his head leaning against his shoulder as the car slowly pulled out of the underground cavern, the fabric of the immaculately pressed jacket scratching against his cheek. He’d exhausted himself more than usual one night and let his eyes close, much to his horror – in front of him! – only to awaken within a room on top of a mattress that was slowly becoming more and more familiar.

And he craved that more than anything else.

The lingering warmth on his body that could only come from the heat of another. The mundane sounds of another person of _that_ person _that one_ in particular going about their life. Oh, when he _wanted_ to make Mitsuhide’s legs quiver he could and he would without hesitation, but it was that, _and_ it was everything else, it was the way he could have sworn he, half-asleep, had felt the brush of lips over his forehead as the sun finally rose, as those of his world, at last, slept.


End file.
